One Hoof In The Grave

by Carolyn McSparren

  “You’d think he’d be the happiest man alive,” I said. “He was rich-rich, a mover and shaker in Georgia and beyond, had a beautiful wife, a brilliant daughter, a gorgeous house and barn, magnificent horses—everything a man could want. What’s that old saying? Everything turned to wormwood and ashes in his mouth. I have no clue why. He just got a kick out of screwing everybody’s life up.”

  “Yours?”

  “He sure tried.” I pondered about whether to tell him about the poison pen letters. The only other person who might mention them was Sarah Beth, the widow. Would she? If she felt threatened, she might. If she’d actually killed her husband and needed to spread the suspicion, she definitely would. I couldn’t count on secrecy. I’d better get my story in first.

  So I did. “Peggy has a copy of the mail merge letter he was going to send telling the show organizers—the driving clubs that sponsor the shows—what a terrible manager I am, that I allow unsafe conditions. He also intimated that I had something to do with my father’s death.”

  “Mail merge? Why not emails?”

  “I couldn’t accuse him without letting him know Sarah Beth had snitched on him. God knows what grief he would have put her through if he’d found out.”

  Geoff got that quizzical look he gets sometime. “Say he did find out, put her through hell, and she decided she’d had enough. She told me she wouldn’t divorce him yet, but admitted they weren’t Romeo and Juliet. We have only her word that she was asleep when he left her that morning. Maybe she was with him. She told me he’d won her with a moonlight carriage ride. Could be she conned him into an early morning ride to make up.”

  “Raleigh would never get up at dawn for Sarah Beth.”

  He shrugged. “But he might for some other woman.”

  “Not me.”

  “I didn’t imply it was you,” he said, and lifted his snifter of brandy to salute me. He pointed to my empty pony.

  I shook my head. “I can feel that one already.”

  “So, how about a walk around the square to clear your head?”

  I wondered whether he planned to hold my hand. He didn’t. I knew from when he investigated my father’s murder, Geoff did not consort with suspects—not even a little.

  “Merry, when this is over . . .” he said. “At the moment, I can’t . . .”

  He was uncomfortable. Good. I considered grabbing his hand, swinging him around and planting one on him right out here in public. Then I relented. “So solve the damned thing fast.”

  “I’m trying.” He sucked in a deep breath. “So, if you didn’t plan to accuse him of slander and libel, what did you plan to do?”

  “Enlist my driving friends to speak to their show organizer friends and tell them the truth. If it came to a choice between listening to Pete and Tully Hull or Giles Raleigh, he didn’t stand a chance. It was simply another attempt to make me miserable. As for the emails—a lot of these folks don’t use computers, or they have secretaries that print them out. Emails aren’t real to them.”

  “So what else did he do to you?”

  We were passing one of the benches that lined the square when I realized I was even more worn out than I’d thought earlier. “Who said he did anything?” I sat and he sat beside me.

  “Tell me.”

  I avoided his eyes. “He hit on me. A lot. And hard. Mean hard.”

  He kept his voice level, but I heard strain. “Attempted rape?” The corollary was unspoken, but there. Had I meant rape?

  “How do you define attempted? A couple of times he ambushed me and tried to hold me down and shut me up. Once I managed to yell for help. Somebody intervened. Once, I kicked him in the crotch. After that I tried never to be alone with him.” I glanced down and saw that Geoff’s hands were in fists. “He didn’t single me out. I was simply another possible conquest. You know, newly divorced woman, should be grateful he was willing to service me.”

  “Did he actually use that word?” he growled.

  “Yep. When I kept turning him down, he seemed to have decided we were in a contest he would win only when he had me naked and flat on my back.”

  “What about Saturday night?”

  “He barely noticed me. Maybe he’d found some other woman to harass. When he was drunk—and that was often—he wasn’t too picky.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. Any heterosexual with a minimal testosterone level would go after you like a hound dog after a pork chop.”

  In the shadows I couldn’t tell whether his ears were red, but I’d seen them that way before when he’d been embarrassed.

  “Come on, let’s get the car and I’ll drive you home,” he said.

  Ten minutes later, when he pulled the Crown Vic into Peggy’s driveway, I didn’t wait for him to get out, walk around the car and open my door for me. I like courtesy as well as the next female, but that particular courtesy has always seemed ridiculous to me. I was sliding out the door before he put the car in park.

  He did, however, catch my wrist as I slid out. Peggy’s driveway is secluded and dark and apparently private enough even for Geoff. “I have a lot more than the minimal amount of testosterone,” he said.

  My insides turned over and my heart went into overdrive. “Glad to hear it.”

  “When this is over, I intend to prove that to you.”

  I sank back onto the edge the seat. “Sooner or later, we have to talk about something other than murder.”

  “So we do. We have all sorts of hidden depths to plumb. Now we just have to find the time to explore them without a murder hanging over our heads.”

  I gulped like a landed trout, whirled around and bolted inside my apartment. Just before his engine revved and backed out of my driveway, I heard him laugh.

  Chapter 17

  Midnight

  Merry

  Maybe it was the B and B wearing off, or Geoff, but as tired as I was, I couldn’t settle. Worry about the horses is a semi-permanent state for me.

  Eohippus, the German-Shepherd sized ancestor of the present day horse, must have been a tough little critter to survive in the world of Saber-toothed tigers, but with size came fragility. Horses look tough and can be a handful, but they are babies about their health and psyches.

  Ned and Golden had seemed no worse for their banging around in the trailer on the way home from the show yesterday, but horse bruises and lameness often take days to develop.

  Whoever tried to wreck us had shown total disregard for the welfare of horses. I couldn’t seriously believe any of the driving group could have been that cavalier.

  The difficulty was that I had no idea why we’d been targeted. I’d narrowly avoided having my father’s new stable burned down less than a year ago. That was one of the reasons I kept all the horses in pasture as much as I could. In a fire or a natural disaster like a tornado, they were better off being able to run away. But they were there and I was here—twenty minutes away. The last time I checked, even Don Qui, smart as the demonic little toad was, could not dial a cell phone to ask for help.

  I felt uneasy, although I couldn’t have said why. If I didn’t drive out to the farm to see that the horses were munching their way across the dark pasture or sleeping peacefully under the trees, I wouldn’t get any sleep at all.

  I keep a big Glock loaded with half rat shot and half slugs, with another loaded magazine in the center console of my truck, and one of those gigantic flashlights in my glove compartment with a complement of extra batteries. I am careful to keep my cell phone charged as well, although it can’t always get service on Hiram’s hill. Still dressed from dinner, I pulled on my paddock boots, tied a cotton sweater around my waist, and headed out to the farm.

  Peggy’s bedroom is on the other side of her house from the driveway, and she has shutters on her windows, so I could sneak out without waking her. I knew that if she did wake, she’d demand to come with me. I didn’t want to argue with her, and since I was probably being silly, there was no reason to wake her.

  When my
cell phone didn’t ring before I was halfway down the block, I knew I’d made my escape. Good. Twenty minutes to the farm, twenty minutes to find and check the horses and the locks on the trailer, workshop, and stable, then home again, home again, jiggety-jig.

  I didn’t meet a single car on the winding two-lane road to the farm, nor were there any strange cars in front of the barn we used for a workshop and storage.

  We’d removed the harness for cleaning and swept the shavings out of the stall areas in the trailer, but we hadn’t dragged Dick Fitzgibbons’ marathon cart and the miniature horse cart out. Locked inside the trailer was as good a place as any to store them. I might not attempt to put Don Qui to the miniature cart for a week.

  The next step was teaching him to drag an automobile tire while I steered him with reins.

  I parked my truck with the headlights pointed toward the pasture in hopes I’d spot the horses looming out of the darkness, but no luck. I’d have to go walk the pasture and look for them. Nuts.

  At night, horses habitually stand perfectly still in the shadows, while they watch human beings search within five feet of them without seeing them. You have to wait for the swish of a tail or the stamp of a hoof to give away their position. Irritating.

  I didn’t actually expect trouble, but I slipped my Glock into the holster on my belt, stuck the spare clip in the pocket of my jeans with my cell phone, worked the big flashlight down the back of my jeans—a singularly unattractive sensation in the chill spring air—and climbed out to start my horse hunt.

  The moon was at that point my grandmother called “the old moon in the new moon’s arms.” The sliver of new moon lay on its back with its horns up, while the outline of the last full moon could still be glimpsed between the horns.

  That meant precious little moonlight. I could see billions more stars than I could in Mossy Creek, but they didn’t do me much good.

  And the temperature had dropped to the dew point. When I aimed the flashlight on the grass, it turned into a carpet of diamonds. My left paddock boot had developed a leak. I could feel the moisture soaking my sock.

  On my left loomed the big pile of logs and roof trusses slated for my house. On the right stood Hiram’s workshop, behind it, the stable, and past the stable, the dressage arena. Beyond the border of my land to the north lay the heavily wooded property belonging to the governor and his cronies.

  I knew my way around my own property pretty well even without moonlight to aid me, but I also knew I could stumble or run into a tree if I got cocky, so I kept the flashlight pointed toward the pasture.

  “Come on, guys,” I called, and whistled. I whistle loud enough to startle me at night. I listened. No answering stamp, no tail swish, no sound of approaching hooves. I swung the light in an arc shoulder high. Nothing.

  I didn’t want to go into the pasture to hunt for them. I wasn’t afraid. They wouldn’t stampede. Whatever books say, horses don’t generally do that. They see better than we do at night, but they are still careful. And they absolutely, positively will not run into or over a human being or animal if they can possibly avoid it. Human beings feel squishy when stepped on. Horses loathe stepping on swishy stuff. I wasn’t concerned that I’d be ground into the mud. But I’d be wet to the knees and cold.

  Off to my left I heard movement, but it sounded as though it came from the far side of the pasture where the old farmhouse had stood before my contractor knocked it down.

  The construction types had also cleared away the debris along with the decrepit house trailer where Hiram’s handyman had lived. Then they’d scraped and re-graveled that back drive up from the highway. Since my front road up to the stable with its sharp turns and steep drop-offs was dangerous for the contractor’s big equipment, they drove up the back road and across the geldings’ pasture to my building site. I had to live with the ruts in my pasture until they were finished.

  The only thing that remained of the original farmhouse was the root cellar. Bobby, my contractor, had been promising to fill it in and cover it with a concrete pad so we could park the tractor on it, but hadn’t gotten to it yet.

  As I walked across the pasture, my light glanced off the yellow road grader sitting at the top of the hill in front of the old cellar.

  Since the guys were driving their equipment through the pasture, I warned them to be extra careful to secure the pasture gate on that side. I didn’t want horses falling into the cellar or wandering off down the old driveway to the road below.

  I heard another movement . . . dear Lord, it sounded as though it was on the far side of the gate! If they’d left the gate unfastened, I would flay Bobby alive.

  My heart lurched and I sped up only to stumble and fall onto my hands and knees in the wet grass. The flashlight rolled five feet away from me. I lunged for it, clambered to my feet, and realized I’d twisted my knee.

  Couldn’t let a little thing like that slow me down. Hoping the kink in my knee would work itself out, I limped on until my light hit the gate.

  It was open!

  Only a gap of about six inches—not wide enough for a horse to slip through, but wide enough for a big horse like Heinzie to push open with his nose if he decided to try. The gate was always double latched—two chains with two latches, top and bottom. I checked late this afternoon. They’d both had been securely fastened. Now both were undone.

  No horse did that. I stood with my back to the gate and swept my light in an arc behind me across the pasture.

  About fifty feet from me the entire herd watched me silently. Now I heard a tail swish and a snort. I counted quickly. Even Don Qui was there. He might have been small enough to slip out. Instead, he stood between the Friesian Heinzie’s big black feet and stared at me.

  “Hey guys,” I said softly. “What ya’ doin’?”

  In answer they turned as one and meandered off into the darkness.

  Why was the gate open? If I hadn’t heard a horse outside the pasture earlier, then what had I heard? A deer? Coyote? Too big for a raccoon or a possum. No panthers left in this area. Bear? They went through fences, not gates.

  Animals didn’t unlock gates. Human beings did.

  I snapped off my light, moved to my left and stood perfectly still. I needed to give my eyes time to adjust. If someone had come up the back driveway while I was around to hear him, he’d taken care to walk on the grass verge, and not on the noisy gravel. I hadn’t seen a light either.

  I’d walked up and down that driveway lots of times, but I wouldn’t want to walk it at night without a light. “Anybody there?” I called.

  No answer. If there had been someone over there, I wanted to believe they were long gone. But they could be hiding, waiting for me to leave so they could go back through my pasture, leave the gate open again, and do what? Burgle the place? Let the horses loose again? Burn down the barn?

  I am a card-carrying coward. I do not go blindly into anything remotely resembling danger, so I pulled my Glock out of its holster and took out my cell phone. Shielding its light with my body, I checked the signal. Two lousy bars. Maybe that would be enough. Who to call? It wasn’t really Mossy Creek police chief Amos Royden’s jurisdiction, and the sheriff of Bigelow County didn’t like me. I didn’t want to wake Peggy, who would freak.

  So I called Geoff Wheeler. I didn’t know his room number at the Hamilton Inn, but I did know the number of the inn.

  At first the clerk didn’t want to ring his room because it was after ten p.m.

  In a whisper that no doubt carried in the clear night air like a boom box, I finally convinced him it was an emergency.

  Geoff answered instantly.

  “I’m at the farm,” I whispered. “Somebody’s been here. I may be over-reacting, but . . .”

  “Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

  “Geoff, I’m . . .”

  He’d already hung up. I hadn’t told him I was at the far end of the pasture. He didn’t give me a chance.

  Now all I had to do was sit tight. I put my
cell phone back in my pocket with the extra magazine of shells.

  That’s when I saw the light. Or the reflection of a light. Penlight, maybe? Something small at any rate, shining off the far side of the road grader.

  The intruder was still here, but with the road grader in the way, I couldn’t see him. Inside I went dead still. If he wasn’t doing anything wrong, then why hadn’t he answered me?

  Panic would get me and the horses hurt. I knew that as surely as I knew my own name. I willed myself to calm. I could stop him and hold him for Geoff. I was armed and carrying a big honking flashlight.

  Course, he might be armed as well. These days, everybody is. I slipped through the partially open gate and hooked it behind me. I hunkered down, stuck my flashlight back down my jeans, and held the Glock in the two-handed grip I’d been taught.

  So long as I stayed on the grass and off the gravel, I too could move almost silently. All I had to do was get the drop on him. With the pasture gate chained behind me, his only escape route was back down the driveway.

  The road grader sat at the edge of the cellar excavation.

  I listened, heard nothing, not even breathing.

  I peered around the edge of the road grader. Nobody. I only realized I’d been holding my breath when I released it.

  I should never have called Geoff. I’d probably stumbled over some poor hunter jack-lighting deer. Could be a teenaged couple looking for someplace to smoke dope and make out, although a road grader would not be my first choice.

  Whoever it was, was long gone. Probably scared worse than I was.

  I leaned against the front edge of the road grader and reached for my cell phone. I might still catch Geoff before he dressed and came out to rescue me. I’d never live that down.

  Then something smacked me hard across the back.

  I stumbled forward. The Glock flew out of my hand and down into the darkness in front of the road grader. Breathless and momentarily stunned, I tripped over the lip of the cellar and tumbled head first, down into the pile of sand and dirt on the cellar floor.